


Jezebel

by mostlyuseless



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Asylum
Genre: AU, F/F, Slow Burn, might turn to explicit later idk i havent finished the plan yet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2020-10-10 11:07:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20526998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mostlyuseless/pseuds/mostlyuseless
Summary: In the sleepy town of Greenbrook, Louisiana, two young girls are murdered. Overlooked and frustrated Boston journalist, Lana Winters, is determined to get to the bottom of it, and a young, blonde-headed montessori teacher harbouring a dark secret may be the key.





	1. Two Dead Girls

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is entirely self-indulgent, and honestly, probably only half-good. I haven't really written anything in a few years, so I'm a bit rusty. Hope it's decent.

_If ever the Devil was born without a pair of horns_  
_It was you, Jezebel, it was you_  
_If ever an angel fell_  
_Jezebel, it was you, Jezebel, it was you!_

* * *

_11:03 p.m. Ellie Schrader, after mopping the floors at her father’s bar, began to walk home. She couldn’t help but feel as if she was being followed. She ignored it._

* * *

Lana sat over her typewriter, twirling her cigarette between her first and second fingers. She took a deep breath and leaned back in her chair. The goddamn cooking column. Lana didn’t know more than how to bring water to a boil, yet there she was, practically verbatim copying recipes out of _The Joy of Cooking_, with a few alterations here and there so it wouldn’t be complete plagiarism, along with the quirky, fabricated stories that came with it. This time, it was a simply _wondrous_ tuna casserole, accompanied by a rather delightful story about her two charming yet non-existent kids, Jane and John, who simply refused to eat their vegetables unless they were in this holy, yet horrendously bland and mundane, mayonnaise-filled casserole. Lana didn’t even _like_ casserole.

  
“Lana!” Her boss’ voice drew her attention away from her misery, and she shut the book, using the little red ribbon to keep her place. He pointed his thumb behind him, signalling her into her office. She stood, straightened her skirt, and followed, stabbing out her cigarette in the little glass ashtray and lighting a new one.

  
Her boss took a seat in his green leather chair, gesturing for Lana to sit across from him. She obliged, crossing her ankles and resting her elbow on her knee. “What can I do for you, Pete?” She asked. He pushed the ashtray towards the edge of the desk, and Lana tapped the ash off of her cigarette.

  
“Miss Winters,” he began, leaning back with his fingers laced behind his head, “you know I’ve always seen potential in you.”

  
_Which is why I’m stuck playing Julia fucking Child_. Lana bit her tongue, nodded, and smiled. “Yes, of course. I’ve always appreciated it.”

  
“I don’t want to beat around the bush here,” he said, and Lana suddenly felt her heart jump in the throat at the sudden fear of being fired. Maybe they found a real housewife with a real John and Jane who actually knew her way around the kitchen, and Lana, a journalist and very much _not_ a housewife, wasn’t making the cut anymore. She nodded silently, swallowing her fear. “I have an article I’d like you to write. It’s good, too. Could make your whole career.” Lana felt the blood drain from her face and she grinned, telling herself not to get too excited or ahead of herself. She’d begged for years to cover a real story. Pete wasn’t partial to change.  
“Pete, whatever it is, you won’t be-” He cut her off mid-sentence, dismissing her with a wave of his meaty hand.

  
“You haven’t heard what I have to say,” he said, shifting himself forward. “It’s a big assignment. It requires… a lot. Maybe more than you’ve got.” Lana frowned at the assumption.

  
“I can assure you-” He cut her off again, much to her frustration. She had to bite her tongue to stop herself from snapping at him.

  
“Lana. You’ve been faithful to the Globe for three years. I know your gall. I know your gut. I was hesitant to put you on the field at first, I’ll give you that; but if you want to be a real journalist, this is your shot.” Lana frowned, wondering what the hell Pete had in mind.

  
“What is it?” She asked. He sighed and scratched the back of his neck.

  
“My sister lives in Louisiana. Middle of nowhere, really, only there ‘cause her husband, and he didn’t want to move north,” he prefaced, and Lana listened to his ramblings anxiously. _Land the plane, Pete._ “About three weeks ago, a young girl was murdered. Maybe 20 years old, I don’t know. They found her completely turned inside out.” Lana raised an eyebrow. There was no way he was asking her to cover a small-town, gruesome murder. It was, in a twisted way, far too good to be true. “Got no coverage anywhere outside of the county line. Hell, outside of Greenbrook, even. It fizzled out like nothing.” He paused, expecting Lana to say something, but she was drawing a blank.

  
“I… I’m sorry, Pete, are you asking me to go to Louisiana? To cover this story?” She asked cautiously. Pete cleared his throat.

  
“In short, yes, but I want you to listen to what I’m saying.” Lana nodded, taking a drag of her cigarette. “Six days ago, another girl was murdered. Found the same way, inside out. Same business. Nobody covered the damn story. Now, I don’t know about you, but that seems fishy to me.” Lana nodded vehemently. “None of my guys will take it. Rubs them the wrong way, I think. It feels… off. Hell, it even rubs me the wrong way. They’ve got families, too, and they can’t leave them for however long to go to Louisiana, and they certainly can’t bring them there-”

  
“I’ll do it,” Lana interrupted. She didn’t want to get too overzealous, but goddamn, this was exactly why she wanted to be a journalist. “I’ll go whenever you need me.”

  
“Now, hold on a second,” he said, meeting her eyes. Lana cleared her throat and nodded. “You are a prime target for… whoever this is.” _What? I’m young and female? Are those the only qualifications? _ Lana just nodded. “I need you to understand that there may be risks to this. People may not like you. Down south, in small towns like that… they don’t like journalists poking around in their business. Especially when someone's dead.”

  
“I understand the risks, Pete, but I accept,” she said. There wasn’t an ounce of fear or hesitation in her voice. She had waited her entire life for this, through college and countless shitty cooking columns. She wasn’t about to let this go, not for anything. She had the chance to bring justice, to get her name out there. It wasn’t something she was willing to back out of, now that it was in front of her.

  
“I’m placing faith in you here, Lana. Don’t let me down. If the Globe is the first to break this story--hell, a southern, gory, serial killer? It’ll be huge, and not just for you,” he said. Lana nodded again, though fully aware that she was only getting this story because nobody else would take it. She wasn’t in the position to argue for her dignity. Once this story broke, then she would be.

  
“What’re the details? How long will I be there?” Pete cleared his throat and thumbed through the files on his desk.

  
“No longer than a month, I figure. The Globe’ll pay for your motel room, not your food. That’s on you,” he said.

  
“No problem, absolutely no problem,” she replied, trying not to sound too enthusiastic. It didn’t work, and Pete shot her a pointed look.

  
“Lana, I want you to understand something. This isn’t a trip to fucking Disneyland. This is a town shaken by the death of two young girls. Daughters, sisters, hell, I even think the first one was married. Do you understand?” Lana pursed her lips.

  
“Yes. I’m sorry,” she said, and Pete turned back to his files.

  
“I know this is a big opportunity for you--here it is,” he muttered, stopping himself mid-sentence and pulling out a creme-coloured manila folder from the stack, sliding it towards Lana, “but you need to use discretion. Like I said, they don’t want journalists poking around down there. Don’t be nosey, don’t be insensitive. Hell, don’t even be a journalist. Be… there. Be there, and blend in, and figure out what you can. I know you have a knack for getting what you want, and by God, use it.” Lana nodded and pulled the folder towards herself, gingerly flipping it open. Two newspaper articles lay inside, both brief and lacking almost any general information.

  
“Is this it?” She asked, confused, as she skimmed over the articles. A name, a place, vague detail, and that was it. No time of death, no eye-witnesses. Nothing.

  
“Is it not enough for you? Because I’m sure there’s _someone_ willing-”

  
“No,” Lana interrupted hastily, shutting the folder. “No. It’s not too much. I can do it,” she said, in genuine full confidence. Pete muttered something under his breath and reached for his notepad.

  
“My sister, Maggie, will help you with the basics. Names, places, whatever you need to know. Don’t overstay your welcome. That being said, though, she’s a friendly girl, so if you need anything unrelated to the murders, you’ll be welcome. She knows you’re coming.” He ripped off sheet, which had a name, a phone number, and an address scrawled on the front. Lana folded it and neatly tucked it into her notebook.

  
“Thank you so much, Pete. Really,” Lana said. He waved his hand nonchalantly, and Lana wasn’t about to blubber about how grateful she was, so she stood. “I’ll leave tomorrow.”

  
“Keep your receipts so we can reimburse you, for the motel,” he said, regarding her before him. “Don’t get yourself into trouble, Lana. Don’t be afraid to leave if it gets dangerous.” Lana nodded, but they both knew that Lana would rather die than abandon this opportunity.

  
“Thank you again,” she said, having to refrain from showing her excitement. _Two dead girls._ Lana didn’t want to exploit them. She wanted to bring them justice.

* * *

“Aren’t you at least a little bit afraid?” Her friend, Lois, asked, as Lana sorted through her clothes, trying to decide on what to bring. She sighed.

  
“This is what I’ve _dreamed_ of,” she said, seeming slightly annoyed. It was the third time she’d asked that same question in the last few hours. “Do you know what this could do for my career? What I could do for those families? I can do something, Lois, besides writing shitty recipes for tired housewives.”

  
“Lana, you’re investigating a murder.”

  
“Two murders,” Barb corrected, startling both of them as she stood in the doorway. “Spaghetti is ready. Both of you need to eat.” Lana waved her off, too preoccupied with folding her nice blouses.

  
“I know what I’m capable of,” she said dismissively, and Lois sighed.

  
“Lana, honey, I need to ask. If this has something to do with Wendy-”

  
“It doesn’t.” Her voice was hard enough to curb any further prying, and neither of them tried. There was a moment of silence, before Lana continued. “I am doing this for my career. Nothing more, nothing less.” Neither of them said a word further about it.

  
Lana finished her folding, and walked into the kitchen for supper. She took a seat at the linoleum table, where a hot plate of piled-high spaghetti was waiting for her. She twirled her fork around the noodles, not caring much to take a bite. Both Barb and Lois noticed, and Lois reached out her hand to rest on Lana’s.

  
“You’ve gotta eat something,” she said gently, but Lana pulled her hand back.

  
“I can’t. My nerves…” she replied, shaking her head and reaching for the pack at the centre of the table.

  
“No smoking during dinner,” Barb reminded her, which earned her a glare from Lana, although she placed her hand back in her lap. “Maybe that’s what killed your appetite. You’ve been smoking like a chimney all day. You need to relax, Lana. Have a bath. I think we still have some grass in the back of the cupboard, if you want it.” Lana rolled her eyes.

  
“Jesus, I don’t want to get high, Barb,” she said, running a hand through her hair. “I’m _nervous._ Isn’t that warranted?” Barb opened her mouth to speak, but Lois placed a hand on her arm, silently telling her to be quiet.

  
“We just want to help, sweetie, that’s all,” Lois told her gently. “You don’t have to eat, but you need to think about something other than this job, just for tonight. Barb was right, you should have a bath, except no dope involved.” Lois had never been a fan of that particular habit, and although it never bothered Lana much, she had no inclination to partake herself. Lana sighed and snatched the pack off the table, along with the tacky yellow ashtray.

  
“Alright. I’ll be in the main bathroom.” Barb opened her mouth to protest, but Lois smacked her arm and smiled.

  
“Sounds fine, honey. We’ll put your supper in the fridge if you want it later,” she replied, and with a nod, Lana retreated to the bathroom.

  
She started to run the tap, adding the last bits of whatever bubble bath was in the cupboard under the sink. The assaulting scent of the combination of vanilla, lavender, and fresh linen filled the air, but she didn’t care, resting with her back against the wall and waiting for the bath to be fully drawn. She closed her eyes and bit her lip, her mind reeling over about what Barb had said, about this having anything to do with Wendy. The slightest part of her knew that it did, but, unwilling to deal with the emotions that realization brought, she shoved it down, and willed her mind to wander elsewhere.

  
_Ellie Schrader_. Twenty-two years old. The daughter of the seemingly well-liked owner of the popular town bar, outside of which she was murdered. That was it. There was absolutely nothing else in that article but fluff--which Lana knew like the back of her hand; she wrote fluff pieces, for Christ’s sake. Nothing of substance, nothing to help her even in the slightest. And for the other girl, Annie Allen, she was provided even less information. She was married to Phil Allen, and died on October 23rd. That was it. No location, nothing. The brevity of the articles lead her to believe that the people in Greenbrook knew enough about the murders not to need a documentation, but rather, it was a formality; an acknowledgement of this horrible evil, so it wouldn’t have to be addressed again.

  
Lana looked over to see the bath full, and stopped the faucet before it would overflow. She sunk herself into the abundance of bubbles and warm water, allowing herself to sink until her head was barely above water. _Ellie Schrader. Annie Allen. _

  
She thought about what Pete had said, how none of the other reporters would take the job. She couldn’t blame them. It was gruesome in nature, and for men with families, and daughters and wives, maybe it struck a certain chord. There was something that Pete had said though, about how it just felt _off,_ that Lana dwelled on. It wasn’t just the murders, it was the feeling that surrounded them. She could see how it would seem repulsive, but for Lana, it compelled her; that feeling in the pit of her stomach, that told her _this is wrong._ The way Pete had phrased it, with the girls being turned inside out, was horrifying, no doubt, but Lana always had an affinity for the macabre. There were no details outside of that, and certainly nothing in the articles, so it must’ve been something his sister heard, and there was no telling whether or not he had told her coworkers. She assumed he had, but even without it, there was something in Lana’s gut that told her to rescind her acceptance, and to never think about it again. Something sinister waited for her in Greenbrook, Louisiana, and, true to her nature, Lana was absolutely determined to figure out what it was.

* * *

“Shit!” Lana hissed, dropping her cigarette into the ashtray in her car. She hadn’t even realized she’d smoked it to the filter until she burned her fingers. She plucked it out gingerly so she could stab it out, wiping the residual ash on her knee. She’d been on the road for a whopping fourteen hours, and was feeling her mind turn to mush. Although she’d debated stopping for the night in Tennessee, she decided against it, a decision which she was now starting to regret. Her radio station now, somewhere in northern Louisiana, blared some church choir music, which, admittedly, Lana hadn’t minded at first, but now was just beginning to blend together in one, annoying hum. She rubbed her eyes with the heel of her palm and took a deep breath, ducking away from the air vents in her car to light her next cigarette before deciding to turn off the air completely. It was a comfortable temperature, anyways.

  
She hadn’t stopped in a few hours, the last time being when she reached a rest stop and phoned Lois and her boss to let them know that she hadn’t fallen asleep behind the wheel quite yet. She had another few hours until she reached Greenbrook, and she wasn’t about to stop now, when she’d made it this far, so she just followed the road.

  
The names of the girls circled her head. _Ellie Schrader. Annie Allen._ It was relentless. She’d thought of about a million ways of going about asking people questions while remaining innocuous, but as she grew drowsier, her methods were becoming more and more outlandish. She’d even debated getting the FBI involved, as if that would help a damn thing, for both the girls and her career.

  
She’d settled on Mel’s Tavern, the bar in which Ellie’s family owned, as a starting place. Lana was relatively unassuming--sure, she was a know-it-all, and slightly intrusive, but nothing about her screamed ‘journalist,’ at least, not that she knew of. She was even cognizant of her clothing; plain, neat, nothing too remarkable. Not how Lana preferred to dress, yet it fit the part.

  
_The part_. In Lana’s scrambled brain, she recalled her story: still a journalist, but true to her actual job, in case anybody went digging. She was still a cooking columnist, travelling the south, searching for generations-old recipes that anybody may be willing to pass along to the public. Completely oblivious to the murders, only wanting to get a taste for southern hospitality and lifestyle.

  
She had in her notebook her rules for herself. No more than three drinks in public, and nothing indicating any previous knowledge of Ellie or Annie. Flirtatious, but not promiscuous. Inquisitive, but not snoopy. Never dumb, but not quite bright, either. She was there for her cooking columns, and that was it.

  
The deeper she got into Louisiana, the more she seemed to notice the cloud of dirt that flared up behind her tires. She thanked herself for both her tendency to drive fast and her anxiety to arrive at her destination that drove her to leave at five in the morning, which meant she would arrive at the motel just before the front desk closed. She peeked down at the open map beside her, her route marked red, and a big X over her last stop. Her guess was that she still had two hours ahead of her, after already having driven a whopping fifteen hours. She groaned, leaning her head back, driving deeper and deeper into the south. Gripping the steering wheel harder, she inwardly motivated herself. _This could get my name out there. This could--this will--be my shot._

* * *

When Lana arrived at the motel, half-asleep and ready to collapse on any bed that was placed before her, she waited as patiently as she could at the front desk, hearing the attendant moving about in the back room behind a closed door. She hit the bell with the palm of her hand, and a young girl came scurrying out, looking almost as exhausted as Lana. 

“Sorry about that,” she said breathlessly, rubbing her eyes and shaking herself awake. She seemed like she would be a perky girl, if she wasn’t entirely drained. “My name is Fran, how can I help you?”

  
“I’d like a room, please,” Lana replied half-heartedly. Fran nodded and looked down at the sheets before her.

  
“Okay. Let me see.” Fran flipped through the papers, humming softly to herself. “It looks like we have a king bed available, $9 a night. How long will you be staying with us?”

  
“I’m not sure,” Lana said, pushing her hair out of her face. “Could be a while. Is that okay?” Fran looked at her, clearly intrigued.

  
“Why? If you don’t mind me asking. Usually people don’t stop here for more than a night.”

  
“I’m here for an article, um, southern cooking,” she muttered, rubbing her temples. She had to push herself to be friendly and articulate. “I’m sorry, Fran, I’ve just been driving for quite a while, and I’m exhausted.” Fran didn’t seem at all put off by Lana’s presence or purpose, which relieved her, although she was too tired to fully enjoy it.

  
“Of course, my bad,” Fran replied with a friendly smile. “If you’re not sure how long you’ll be here, I can take a weeks worth?” Lana fished her wallet out of her purse, pulling out $60 and handing it to the girl.

  
“Keep the change. Consider it a tip,” she hummed, and Fran grinned even wider.

  
“Oh, thank you, I usually wouldn’t accept it but my brother just went of to college and-”

  
“Fran, honey, I’m so sorry, but I’m exhausted. Could we continue this on the way to my room?” Fran nodded hastily, putting the cash into the register and locking it up before walking around the desk.

  
“Of course, I’m sorry,” she said, leading Lana out the office doors and into the courtyard. Her room was two doors down from the office, and Fran fumbled with the key as she tried to unlock it.

  
Once open, Lana stepped inside, turning to Fran who handed her the key.

  
“If anything isn’t up to your liking, just let us know, and we’ll be happy to fix the issue to the best of our ability. We have coffee and pastries until 9, and if you need directions for anywhere in town, come to the front desk during operation hours and we’ll lend a hand,” Fran said, clearly reciting a script that had been drilled into her from the moment she started working there. Lana smiled weakly.

  
“Thank you, Fran. Goodnight,” she replied, shutting the door as Fran retreated. She made her way to the bed and laid face-first on the quilted blanket atop the mattress, not even willing to change before climbing between the covers and falling asleep. She set the faulty alarm clock to 8 in the morning, allowing herself a little time to sleep in, before falling fast asleep. She had big plans for the following day, after all.

  
She was going to learn about some dead girls.


	2. What Lies Behind Door 'A'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I know that this took me over two months to publish, but honestly, I felt so stumped with where I wanted to take this. I wrote this chapter three times and I've rewritten the entire plan twice. Between that and starting school and moving into a new apartment, I've just had my hands a bit tied. But I think I've got something good, finally. I think. Anyways, thank you for your patience and your kind words! Hopefully my updates will come a little more smoothly now.

_ 11:05 p.m. Ellie still feels the presence of whoever is following her, but she doesn’t dare look over her shoulder. In the corner of her eye, she catches a shadow. _

* * *

In the morning, the first item on Lana’s to-do list was a hot shower. 

The hours upon hours spent in the car yesterday did no favours to her back and neck. She was sore when she went to bed, and even more so when she made the mistake of waking up. The water pressure was less-than-satisfactory, but it was clean enough that her skin didn’t crawl at the thought of being naked in there, and if she was being honest with herself, she didn’t have much of a better option. Or any better option. 

When she was dressed and done-up for the day, she sat on her bed and reached for her bag, pulling out the worn notebook and flipping to the bookmarked page. She grabbed one of the many pens she had stashed in there and tried to recall what she’d decided on the night before, in terms of a plan. She tapped the cap against her lower lip and thought about it. Her only connection was Maggie, and maybe that Fran girl she’d met at the front desk briefly the night before. That was it. Two people who she didn’t even _ know. _Hell, she knew nothing about this town at all. She swallowed the looming fear that she was in over her head, and that if she didn’t succeed, her career would be over before it started. Lana, however, was nothing if not determined. In her notebook, she scrawled her baseline idea of talking to Maggie, before slamming it shut and shoving it back into her bag, pulling out her car keys in its absence. 

She could do this. She _ had _to do this. 

* * *

Lana double-checked the address written down, making sure it messed the dilapidated, baby-blue house that sat before her. _ 1209 Holly Drive. _ This was it. 

Lana got out of the car, her heels clicking against the pavement, contrasting harshly to the dull sound they made when they hit the rotting wood of the deck. She knocked, her back straight and a smile plastered on her face. In the corner of her eye, though, she noticed a little sign, painted blue and pink and _ really, _something she should’ve noticed before:

_ Sacred Heart Montessori School. _

_ Shit. _Lana had the wrong house. 

The door swung open just as she was ready to leave, and she could instantly hear the noise of children. A plump woman stood before her, cigarette hanging out of her mouth, staring at her expectantly. Lana smiled at her and cleared her throat. 

“Hello, I’m so sorry to bother you. I think I have the wrong-”

“Are you Lana?” The woman grunted, and Lana had to make a serious effort not to let her smile waver. 

“Yes, I am. You must be-”

“Maggie. Come on in,” she replied, standing aside and holding the door open. She walked in with as much confidence as she could muster. She couldn’t pry into a gruesome murder with, what, fifteen young children in her interviewee’s care.

“I apologize again, Pete never mentioned that you ran a school. I can come back another time, if you’d like,” Lana offered, but Maggie waved her off. 

“Nah, it’s fine,” she said. “I don’t run it all by myself. We can talk upstairs.” 

“Will the children be alright?” She asked. “I hate to intrude.”

“Trust me. I could use the break. Let me just tell Mary.” Lana nodded and stood awkwardly in the hallway, hands clasped in front of her while Maggie disappeared into the room to her left. She returned a few moments later, and gestured Lana upstairs, the dark wooden creaking beneath them.

Upstairs, there was a small hallway, one door with a crooked _ A _ and the opposite with a _ B _ . Maggie fiddled with the knob of the _ B _door, and when it opened, she led her inside. 

The apartment was almost disturbingly small. There was a kitchen and a round table tucked into the corner, and within arms reach were the doors to what Lana assumed were the bedroom and the bathroom. She could hardly imagine one person living there, let alone two. 

“Please, sit,” Maggie said, gesturing towards the table. Lana obliged. 

“Forgive me for asking, but I believe Pete mentioned you had a husband?” Lana asked, unable to satiate her curiosity. Maggie chuckled under her breath and grabbed two chipped mugs from the cupboard, setting them on the counter before she started to grind up some coffee. 

“I did. He died, ‘bout a year ago,” Maggie said. “He bought the property so we could run the school and rent out the space upstairs. I figured I’d rather live here and make some money off the montessori than sell it and live alone in that big ol’ house.” Lana pursed her lips, bowing her head slightly. 

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“I expected nothing less. You’re a journalist, aren’t you?” Lana laughed softly, crossing her legs and folding her hands in her lap.

“I am.” She couldn’t help the pride that leaked into her voice as she said it. _ She was a journalist. _

“I know you’re here about those girls,” Maggie said, turning on the coffee maker and taking a seat across from Lana, “but I don’t know if I’ll be much help. I don’t know a lot about it.” Lana pulled out her notebook and tucked her pen behind her ear, flipping to a fresh page. 

“Can you tell me what you do know?” Maggie sighed.

“Well, let’s see. I knew Ellie better than Annie. She worked at her dad’s bar, just up the street from here. Nice girl, kind of quiet. Bookish, too. She read a lot, and she was always kind of frazzled.” Lana wrote down what Maggie was saying feverishly in her notebook, even though it was of little note. 

“Did you notice anything different about her before she died?” Lana asked, and Maggie shrugged.

“Maybe, a little. She seemed a bit more out-of-it than usual, but I could just be grasping at straws here. There wasn’t anything big, no.” 

“Did she have any friends? A boyfriend?” 

“Not that I really know of. She was friendly with Mary Eunice, I know that much. That’s the other gal that works here, lives across the hall, too.” Lana chewed her lip and wrote this down, bigger than the rest of her notes, before underlining it. 

“How friendly were they?” Lana asked. “I mean, did they spend a lot of time together?” 

“Not a whole lot, I don’t think. They weren’t really close, if that’s what you mean. They were friends in school, and they were in the same group after. Mary stopped going out with them a few months ago, though.” _ Now that was something. _Lana looked up from her notepad.

“Why’s that?” Maggie shifted a bit, shrugging her shoulders.

“Not really about Ellie. Mary was having some personal troubles, but I promise you, it doesn’t apply to this,” she said. Lana wanted to argue that it absolutely did, and that this was a real _ lead, _but she bit her tongue, rationalizing with herself that it was just a little too early to dig that deep with Maggie. She nodded, grabbing a cigarette from her bag. 

“Alright, I’ll take your word for it. Do you know if Mary Eunice saw her at all in the weeks before she died, if she would’ve noticed any change in behaviour?” 

“No. Not that she mentioned, at least.” Lana tapped her pen against the paper.

“Do you think she would talk to me?” Lana asked, and Maggie laughed.

“No, honey. I don’t know if Pete told you, but nobody here is too keen on the idea of some stranger from Boston poking around in an open wound.”

“Then why are you?” Lana asked before she could stop herself, biting her tongue as soon as the words left her lips. Maggie didn’t seem to take offence, though, and she looked back at Lana with heavy blue eyes. 

“Because nobody is doing anything about it. Nobody is talking about it. If whatever you write gets published and actually gets people looking into this thing, then maybe there will be some justice. I hope that’s why you’re here, too,” she said, and Lana felt a rush of shame flood through her body. Of course, she was there to help those girls, but selfishly, she knew that her main concern was her own career. It was almost all she’d been able to think about. 

It was like she wouldn’t allow herself to feel for this tragedy, in wake of her own. 

“Yes, of course,” Lana said softly with a nod and a small smile. Maggie nodded back, and got up to pour them some coffee. Lana cleared her throat and looked back to her notebook. 

“So, what do you know about Annie?” She asked after a few moments of silence. Maggie took her seat again and pushed the mug towards Lana, who took it gratefully. 

“Annie was married to a fellow, Phil. I teach his nephew. I know her sister-in-law, Winnifred, pretty well, but I don’t know much about her, or her husband. They didn’t have kids, they weren’t expecting. They’d just been married a few months, from what I’ve heard. I think they were getting ready to move to Dallas.”

“Dallas?” Lana asked with a frown. “Do you know why?”

“No idea,” Maggie said. “I told you, I didn’t know her. All I know is what Winnifred has mentioned in passing.”

“Did Winnifred say anything else?” 

“Not really. Not that I can remember, at least. At the time, it wasn’t notable. I don’t think Winnifred liked her much. She made a comment or two about her not finishing high school, and not helping Phil around the house much. That’s it, though. Not many details.” Lana wrote down what Maggie said. Some mention of animosity towards Annie was a good sign; she could get somewhere with that. 

Maggie looked at the old grandfather clock to her left and stood, wiping her hands on her skirt. “I should get back to the kids. Feel free to finish up your coffee and your notes. Do you know the way out?” Lana smiled and nodded, standing so she could shake Maggie’s hand.

“Yes, I’ll only be a few minutes. Thank you so much for everything,” she said. 

“Sure. Come back if you need anything else,” Maggie replied, an offer that Lana knew she’d be taking up. She left after that, leaving Lana alone in the tiny apartment. 

Lana waited a few minutes, finishing her coffee and placing it in the sink, before putting her things back into her bag. Mary Eunice, friend of Ellie who mysteriously stopped being her friend just _ months _before her untimely death, lived right across the hall. Maggie said she wouldn’t talk to her, either, but this was too good of a lead for Lana to not at least look into. It was like an itch she needed to scratch. 

She knew that she had to be careful, and that if she blew this with Maggie, she was done. Without her to talk to, and more importantly, without her connections, Lana would be out of Greenbrook before even making a dent in this story. Yet she couldn’t just walk away. It wasn’t in her nature. A closed door had always felt like an invitation, and never before had it been so enticing. 

She poked her head out the door, before quietly stepping out and shutting it behind her. The stairs were loud enough that she would hear someone walking up, she decided. The _ A _ door stood dauntigly before her, and Lana gingerly turned the rusty knob, which, to her relief, opened with ease. 

The girl’s apartment was similar in shape and size to Maggie’s, but otherwise, it was entirely different. It seemed darker, and the walls were cluttered with what Lana could only describe as junk. Newspaper cutouts, crosses, drawings, old paintings that were so worn they were almost colourless. Lana looked over her shoulder before shutting the door behind her, carefully creeping into the apartment. 

Something about it gave her chills. It felt wrong. Not trespassing, but the apartment itself. She studied the cutouts on the walls, but they were meaningless; one was a newspaper headline about a grocery store opening, another was half of a comic strip, and another was a photograph of a random man standing proudly next to a dead animal. Bible verses were scattered about as well, but the print was so small, Lana had to squint to even figure out what they were.

The kitchen was almost meticulously clean and barren, a stark contrast to what she had hoarded on the walls. She didn’t have a table like Maggie did, but instead a small reading chair in its place that was so dingy it looked like it had seen hell. Lana noticed that the bedroom door was left ajar, and inside was an unmade bed with no quilts or blankets, but only some white linens and a single pillow. The window had been covered with a heavy curtain, and Lana could barely make out anything else. From what she could see, there were some clothes laying around, and the nightstand was as cluttered as the walls. She hesitantly flicked on the light, scanning the room from the doorway. Photo frames, a vase of dead flowers, a Bible and a pill bottle rested on the small table, and Lana warily took a step into the bedroom. The walls were the same as the other room, although maybe a bit sparser. Lana’s heart was hammering in her chest. This felt wrong. Something about this girl was _ wrong. _She felt inexplicably compelled to leave. 

She clutched her bag and walked out of the room, walking to the door as quietly as she could. She slipped out of the apartment, and once she was in the hall, she felt as if she could breathe again; like this weight had been lifted off her chest. 

That weight returned, though, as she heard a voice call out when she was shutting the door, “what are you doing?” 

Lana turned quickly, eyes landing on a blonde girl who was staring up at her from the foot of the stairs. The fact that she wasn’t a child meant that Lana could safely deduce that this was the girl whose apartment she’d snooped through. She smiled easily, her mind racing. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “I was looking for a bathroom and I think I may have gotten a little turned around.” The girl started to walk up the stairs and Lana backed away from the door. 

“Why would you think the bathroom was in there?” She asked with a frown. She didn’t seem angry, per se, but maybe just confused, or a little annoyed. Face to face, Lana could tell that this girl was a bit younger than her. She stood a few inches taller, too, but she had a girlish face and didn’t seem inherently threatening, despite her inexplicably uneasy apartment.

“That’s a good question,” Lana replied with a breezy laugh. “My mind has been all over the place today.” She held out her hand. “I’m Lana.” Mary Eunice looked at it, unsure, and then met Lana’s eyes, before giving her the weakest handshake she’d ever experienced. 

“Mary Eunice,” she said. “You’re Maggie’s niece?” Lana wasn’t sure how to answer. _ Was that what Maggie told her? _“Well, you’re the girl she was talking to, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Lana said simply, relieved that Mary Eunice had posed the other question and offered her an easy out. “I’m sorry for walking into your apartment like that.” 

“It’s fine,” she replied, her eyes searching Lana’s in a way she couldn’t explain. It wasn’t in the way she would’ve imagined. She wasn’t catching Lana in her lie; at least, not that Lana could tell, and she didn’t seem particularly suspicious of her. No, it was like she could see right through her, but _ couldn’t. _Like she was looking for an answer to a question she didn’t have yet. And Lana couldn’t stand it.

“Okay. Well, I’d better get going. It was nice to meet you,” Lana said, tearing her gaze away from Mary Eunice’s. 

“You, too,” she replied under her breath. Lana quickly walked down the stairs, not stopping her stride until she reached her car. She wasted no time turning on the car and driving away from the little blue school, and with each mile she put between herself and that building, she felt more settled. Mary Eunice was not only bizarre, but frightening in a way that Lana couldn’t even understand herself. If there was one thing she knew, though, it was that her apartment was that of a serial killer’s, without a doubt. She had never been in a place so unnerving, and as she pulled into the parking lot of the motel, she could only thank God she hadn’t been caught. Not just because of Maggie, but because of _ that girl. _As she was gathering her things and preparing to get out of the car, something stopped her cold. 

Had she remembered to turn the light off?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again! Pleased to say I finally have an actual direction to go with this story, so expect updates a lot more regularly.

_ 11:05 p.m. Ellie’s heart starts to race. She walks a little bit faster.  _

That afternoon, Lana was still trying to wrap her head around Mary Eunice and her strange, creepy apartment. She wrote down all the details she could remember; how eerily quiet it was, how dark it was. Lana wasn’t one who scared easily, but the sheer madness of that girl frightened her. She had no evidence, nor any real facts, but she had this pit in her stomach that told her something was  _ wrong  _ about Mary Eunice. Even standing next to her, although she wasn’t overtly threatening, gave her chills. She had chills just  _ thinking  _ about their interaction. 

And the fact that she’d left her fucking bedroom light on. 

She’d been cursing herself for being an idiot for hours. How could she have done that? How could she have been so  _ stupid?  _

Pushing the thought from her mind was a struggle, but she somehow managed to focus her thoughts elsewhere. She’d wrung every possible theory about Mary Eunice in relation to the girls out of her brain, and at this point, hyperfixating on it would be a waste of time. Her next course of action was to pay a visit to Mel’s Tavern, which was truthfully killing two birds with one stone, because she was dying for a drink. Now that she was established as Maggie’s niece, though, her cooking-columnist-on-the-road idea became a little more complex. She wasn’t sure what Maggie had told Mary Eunice, and she wasn’t about to go back there and ask, at least not today. Decidedly, her best idea was to just get a scope of the atmosphere and a whiskey. 

* * *

The bar was open. Lana had half-expected it to be closed, given the immense tragedy the family had suffered. However, when she pushed on the door, it opened, and although it wasn’t necessarily crowded, there were a decent amount of people in there. It felt tense, though. Awkward. Lana felt like an intruder for just standing there, and part of her wanted to leave. 

But she  _ really  _ needed that drink. 

She took a seat as far away from the crowd as she could, tucking herself in a corner and sitting on the cracked green leather stool. She felt eyes settle on her in a matter of seconds, and a hush fell over the bar. Her eyes scanned the crowd, and she cracked a small smile. Nobody came up to ask her who she was, or what she was doing there, but she could tell they were all asking themselves the question. Lana stayed silent. 

“Can I help you?” A man asked, and she turned her attention to the bartender. 

“Double whiskey, neat, please. I don’t care which brand,” she said, and he nodded, wiping down a glass with the bar rag.  _ Gross.  _ He free-poured her drink rather generously, which she was grateful for, and placed it wordlessly in front of her, before going to tend to the other customers. 

Lana scanned the bar again, this time focusing on the dimly lit booths towards the back. Her eyes settled on a blonde girl, sitting alone. Frowning, she craned her neck to get a better look.  _ It couldn’t be. _

But it was. There Mary Eunice sat, alone, tugging anxiously at the sleeves of her white cotton top. It didn’t make sense. Maggie told her that Mary Eunice hadn’t been out in months, and here she was, at the bar that her dead friend’s father used to work at? It made no  _ sense. _ Lana sipped her drink, her grip tightening on the glass. She begged herself to resist the urge to go talk to her. For once, she wanted to exert some semblance of self-control. 

It only took a few seconds for her to get to the booth. 

“Mary Eunice, right?” She asked, sliding into the opposite end of the booth. The girl jumped, startled by her presence, but then relaxed slightly when she saw Lana’s face. 

“Yes, and you’re Maggie’s niece,” Mary Eunice replied, and Lana smiled easily, silently praying the girl wouldn’t bring up her snooping.

“What brings you to a bar, alone on a Monday?” Mary Eunice looked at her hands, sitting up a bit straighter. Lana could tell she was nervous.  _ But why? What was she hiding? _

“I… I don’t really know. I haven’t been here in a while,” she said, fingers pulling at a loose thread that hung off the edge of her sleeve. Lana noticed that her white knuckles were bruised, smatterings of blue and yellow laid out across her flesh. Her heart started to beat a little faster. Was she sitting across from a murderer? 

“What made you decide to come, then?” Lana asked, sipping her drink. Mary Eunice pushed her bangs out of her face and shrugged, not offering any further explanation. “Alright. Can I at least buy you a drink?” Mary shook her head. 

“No,” she replied quietly, “I don’t drink.” Lana raised an eyebrow. 

“Now I really don’t understand why you’re here,” she teased, but Mary Eunice didn’t seem to get the joke. She met Lana’s eyes, almost panicked, her pale cheeks becoming flushed. Lana could tell she was searching for an explanation and stressing out further, so she said, “relax. I was only teasing.” She relaxed a little at this and let out a strained laugh. 

“Oh. Okay,” she said. “I’m sorry, I… like I said, I haven’t been here in a while, and it’s really strange… to be here.” The way Mary Eunice said her words made Lana feel almost as if she was doubting herself, like there was a weight to her words and she needed to approach them with caution. 

“Can I ask why?” Mary Eunice pursed her lips and shifted, her hands sliding off the table and into her lap. 

“It’s kind of a long story,” she said, her gaze fixed downwards. Lana nodded and took another sip of her drink, before pulling a cigarette out of her bag. 

“Okay. I won’t pry,” Lana replied. “Do you smoke?” Mary Eunice looked up and shook her head. “Okay, suit yourself.” Lana rested her elbow on the table, lighting her smoke as she studied Mary Eunice. The girl seemed to study her back. 

“Why are you here, Lana?” She asked. Lana shrugged. 

“I don’t know. I wanted a drink, and I heard that-”

“No,” Mary Eunice interrupted. “I don’t mean here, here. I mean in Greenbrook. Why are you  _ here _ ?” Fuck. Lana was worried about that. 

“Needed to get out of Boston for a while,” she said, realizing that she couldn’t criticize Mary Eunice for being closed off when she was acting just the same. Only, she didn’t live in an apartment decorated like a sociopaths wet dream, and she was under no suspicion of murdering two girls. “Have you ever been?” 

“To Boston?” Mary Eunice asked, and shook her head. “No. I’ve never been further north than Little Rock.” 

“So you’re from here, then?” Mary shrugged. 

“I guess so, yes. I’ve never lived anywhere else,” she said. 

“I see. What made you decide to be a montessori teacher?” Lana asked, pulling the ash tray that was on the table towards her. Her tone was casual, and she was desperately trying not to give the impression that she was interrogating the girl. 

“I’ve always liked children, and I sort of already had a name around here for babysitting, so…” her voice trailed off and she shrugged again. “What do you do?”

“I’m a cooking columnist,” Lana replied. 

“So you’re a cook?” 

“No,” she replied with a small laugh. “I’m actually a terrible cook. I’m a writer.” Mary Eunice frowned.

“But you write about cooking?” Lana blinked. 

“Yes…?”

“Why would you get a job as a cooking columnist if you’re not a good cook?” Lana shrugged. 

“I just applied for the job. I needed the money. The fault is on them for hiring me without trying my food first.” 

“That seems dishonest,” Mary Eunice said. Lana felt as if there was a lot of dishonesty going on between the two of them. She knew her own lies, but Mary Eunice’s were a lot harder to wade through. 

“I don’t think so. I use real recipes, and really, if anyone can cook worth a damn, they’ll know that it probably won’t be worth the effort to actually make whatever I put out there,” she replied. Mary Eunice’s lip twitched like she wanted to say something, but she stayed silent. “Besides, nobody ever reads the cooking column.” 

“I do,” Mary Eunice said quickly, before clearing her throat. “I mean, I used to.” 

“Why don’t you anymore?”

“Turns out, I’m also a terrible cook,” she replied, and Lana swore she saw the ghost of a smile on her lips. She returned it in full.

“That makes two of us, then.”

“Yes, but I didn’t make a career out of it.” She was  _ definitely  _ smiling now, and seemed to have relaxed, at least a little bit. Lana laughed, finishing the last of her drink. 

“You’ve got me there,” she replied as she stood. “I’m going to get another. Would you like anything?” Mary Eunice shook her head, and Lana went back up to the bar. 

“Another?” The bartender asked, and Lana nodded. 

“Please.” She could feel Mary Eunice’s eyes burning into her back, and she felt the queasy discomfort creeping up on her again. Never in her thirty-some years of living had she ever met somebody so strange. Even disregarding the apartment, the way she spoke so timidly and anxiously, her rigid posture, the way she averted eye contact until she  _ wasn’t _ and suddenly Lana felt like the girl could see directly into her soul. She didn’t like being around her, but at the same time, there was some strange magnetism; a lingering curiosity that couldn’t be satiated. 

Lana waited impatiently for her drink, just so she could talk to the girl again. 

When the bartender set it in front of her she took it quickly and turned back to the booth. Mary Eunice, who was still staring, quickly averted her eyes as Lana walked to the table. She took her seat and drummed her fingers against the old leather. 

“So, were you planning on meeting someone here?” Lana asked, and Mary Eunice shook her head. 

“No, not really.” Great. Another dead end. 

“Okay, well…” Lana had never been one without words, but she was stumped. How could she direct a conversation with a girl who had no give? “How long have you known Maggie?” 

“Three years, or so,” Mary Eunice replied. “She and George gave me the job.” Lana almost asked who George was, but was able to deduce that it was Maggie’s deceased husband before she made a fool of herself. Lana sighed and downed a rather large gulp of her whiskey. The alcohol burned her throat and her nose, but she needed it just to persevere through this conversation. 

“And you like your job?” 

“I do. I told you, I like children,” she said. Lana knew they were going in circles, but she didn’t know what else to say. It wasn’t like Mary Eunice was throwing her a line, either. The girl was looking at her hands again, a habit she seemed to have. 

“How did you get those bruises?” She asked. Normally, she wouldn’t be so crass to ask such a question, but hell, she was nearly two double whiskies deep, and they were  _ very  _ ample pours. Mary Eunice looked stunned at how brash Lana had been, her eyes going wide. 

“I--what?”

“Those bruises on your hand. I saw them earlier. What happened?” She pried further. Her tone wasn’t insistent, but her eyes were; they burned into Mary Eunice’s, and hers burned back. She examined the back of her hand and felt over the bruises with the thumb of her opposite hand. 

“Oh. It’s embarrassing, but I shut my hand in a car door,” she mumbled. The bright blush on her cheeks told Lana that she wasn’t likely to be lying. It was a much less interesting explanation than Lana had been hoping for. 

“Oh, I’m sorry. It looks painful,” Lana said, and Mary Eunice tucked the injured knuckles under the sleeve of her shirt. 

“It’s okay, it’s not too bad. It hurt when it happened, but I’ve sort of forgotten about it by now.” Lana finished the last of her drink, and was feeling decently tipsy at this point. “What happened to your eye?” Lana frowned. 

“What? What do you mean?” She asked. “My eye is fine, as far as I know.” 

“No, I know. I mean, you have a scar. Above your left eyebrow. What happened?” Lana’s hand went to the little scar, feeling over it with the pad of her finger. “You don’t have to tell me,” Mary Eunice continued quickly, “I just figured, since you asked about my hand…”

“No, it’s fine,” Lana said. “I fell off the handlebar of my brother’s bike when I was eleven, right onto the sidewalk. I had to get stitches.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Mary Eunice said, her eyes fixated on the little white scar. Lana frowned. 

“Why? It happened twenty years ago. I’ve recovered,” she replied with a small smile. Mary Eunice returned the smile uneasily. 

“I suppose,” she murmured, so quietly that Lana could hardly hear. Her eyes darted up from her lap to meet Lana’s for a split-second, before being cast back down. 

As the evening ticked on, the bar was starting to fill up, and she could sense Mary Eunice’s discomfort growing. She was even more fidgety than before, looking over her shoulder every so often, jumping whenever anyone so much as set their glass on the counter a little louder than usual. Lana didn’t know if she’d ever met somebody so skittish. 

“I think I should be leaving,” Lana said after a few more minutes of idle conversation. She was getting nowhere, and she could tell that it was unlikely she’d get anywhere at all, at least, not tonight. 

“Oh, okay,” she replied, waving her unbruised hand slightly. “Goodbye. Thank you for your company, drive safe.”

“Yeah, you too.” Lana smiled at her, left her money on the table, slung her bag over her shoulder, and left. She nearly stumbled from the height of her heels, but she was able to maintain her poise. Silently, she made a note not to drink so much next time, even though she hardly had anything. The bartender had a hefty hand. 

* * *

Lana was underwater. At least, it felt like it.

Everything was dark and blurred. She had no sense of touch or time. It was like she was floating, alone. It was silent, too. Until it wasn’t. 

“No, please,” came a panicked girl’s voice. It sounded like it was coming from behind her, and it was so muffled, she could barely hear it. Despite this, Lana could hear the fear in her voice, and she felt it, too. “Please, I’m begging you. Please.” The voice seemed familiar, yet Lana couldn’t place it. She tried to see, but the darkness surrounded her, swallowed her. The girl’s voice continued to beg, repeating the same words over and over, until she started to sob. The sound was getting closer.

“Be quiet.” This voice was different. It was like a whisper, directly in Lana’s ear. The voice was soothing, as if it were trying to comfort the girl. Her screams only became more panicked. 

“Don’t do this,” she begged, and Lana desperately wanted to help her, but the water she was floating started to feel more like glue. Her limbs were stuck to the ground by their own weight. Lana wanted to tell the girl that she was there, that she would help her, but she couldn’t speak. She was stuck, still, listening to the girl cry in fear. 

“Be quiet. Be still,” the whisper came again. Lana almost felt as if the words were directed at her. “Be quiet. Be still.” The voice continued, unrelenting, into Lana’s ear. It had a hypnotic effect on her, as if it were putting her into a trance. The voice was neither male, nor female, but almost like her own consciousness, as if the words were being thought on their own. 

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” the girl sobbed. “I never did anything. Please, let me go.” The girl’s voice had gotten quieter, almost sounding defeated. Lana wasn’t sure how how long she’d listened to the girl beg. It felt like hours, or minutes, she wasn’t sure. She could hardly think. All she could do was lay and listen. 

Lana heard a sharp grinding sound next, and all the girl could do was whimper. A wet, slicing sound followed, long and sticky.  _ Cutting flesh. _ The girl screamed, but it was faded, muffled by whatever fog Lana was hiding behind. The whisper in her ear stopped, and Lana gasped with the hazy effect it had on her gone, but was instantly gagged by a thick, hot, metallic liquid filling her throat and her mouth.  _ Blood. _ She choked and gasped, but it didn’t stop. She couldn’t move away, and she couldn’t close her jaw. When she tried to scream, she only choked harder. 

_ Be quiet. Be still. _

Lana woke up in a cold sweat, scrambling to sit up and breathing heavily. Her hand fumbled to switch the lamp on. It was just her shitty motel room. She could move, she could breathe. There were no whispers, or screams. At the realization that she was safe, her shoulders relaxed a bit. Her hands went to her mouth and throat, and her panic returned when she felt something hot and sticky on her mouth. She brought her hand forward to examine it, and felt her heart sink at the sight. Blood. She could taste it now, too. Quickly, she got out of bed and scurried to the bathroom, nearly sliding on the carpet, flicking the light on and leaning against the counter. A bloody nose. That was the culprit, that was all. Lana almost wanted to laugh at herself for being so ridiculous, and not figuring it out sooner. That explained choking on all that blood in the dream, too; Lana was probably  _ actually  _ just choking on her blood. She turned on the faucet and cupped her hands under the tap, splashing the water in her face to cleanse herself. She was okay. She was safe. It was just a dream. Her hands still trembled as she watched the reddened water fall from her face.

And in the blue house, Mary Eunice bolted upright, panting and sweaty, nose bleeding, heart racing. 

_ Be quiet. Be still.  _

**Author's Note:**

> The lyrics at the beginning are from Frankie Laine's 'Jezebel'


End file.
